The Book of Fire
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Impulse purchases are always a bad idea.


Disclaimer: these are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Notes**: A visit to Storyfan101's little shop of plot bunnies produced a curious object of unknown provenance. This story originally appeared in STAR for BK zine5. Again thanks to those who supported the cause.

**The Book of Fire**

By L. M. Lewis

_Where they burn books, they will, in the end, burn men as well. _Heinrich Heine

Most people spent spring break swilling beer on a beach in Florida. Of course, when you live on a beach in California, that might seem a bit pointless. Still, hanging out a flea market, trying to bust a guy who was smuggling antiquities out of Mexico—

McCormick sighed. He leaned up against the side of a corrugated metal shed. He considered the injustices of life. When he'd actually been the right age for spring break, he'd on the wrong side of Daytona, sleeping in a garage. Now this. He'd kept the guy—Bertie Traviato—under surveillance for most of the morning. It hadn't been easy, even in the crowds that congregated in this place on a Saturday.

Bertie had been moving through the place without much apparent purpose, stopping here and there to talk to a dealer. It was hard to know which times were business, and which were merely subterfuge. Despite his desultatory air, the man was alert. He'd cast the occasional quick, flashing look around him, and Mark was certain that he'd already come under that gaze at least once.

Now he was hanging back, wondering how much longer he could string this out before he was made for certain. It probably hadn't helped any that the average shopper here was twenty years older and eight inches shorter than he was. He sidled over to the nearest booth, determined to do a better job of blending in.

Odds and ends, mysterious looking stuff, lots of unpolished brass and dark, varnished wood. An oriental rug or two, long in the tooth and moth-eaten. Some smaller knick-knacks, more green-tinged brass. Mark frowned. Nothing with a price tag. The proprietor was a wizened man of indeterminate age and ethnic extraction, who stood slightly to one side, looking more like a magpie than an eager entrepreneur.

All good--Mark thought the man wouldn't harass him too much if he spent some time under the awning, looking interested. He picked up a brass ashtray, heavy, with several pointed corners. He wondered idly if it had ever been used as a blunt object. He put it down, deciding he'd spent too much time with Hardcastle.

The smaller of the worn rugs, piled haphazardly on a table, slipped a little to one side and threatened to go all the way to the ground. There was an indeterminate shaped lump beneath it. He grabbed the edge and reached under it, intending to pull whatever it was out, to stabilize the stack. The old man stepped forward, suddenly intent.

"No, no." He put one gnarled hand out onto the rug. "Do not trouble yourself." It was polite but firm—and too late, the rug was small but heavy, and had its own momentum. Mark snatched for whatever was underneath it and threatening to go along for the ride.

"Sorry," he said.

The old man stooped to retrieve the rug. He looked as if he intended to put it back exactly where it had been as quickly as possible. Then he glanced up at Mark, who was smiling as he held what had been beneath it.

It was a parrot, painted in colors that must have once been tropically garish, but were now faded to more restrained and antique hues. There were fine cracks in the finish and a few chips, also bespeaking years. The thing was crude, and hideously ugly. Mark guessed, by the heft of it, that it was made of plaster. He turned it bottom side up. There was no maker or other identifying information, but the plaster composition was evident.

Mark's smile had become a grin. "How much?" He only wished he'd found it a few months earlier, before the judge's birthday.

"That is not for sale," the little man said quickly.

Mark glanced up in momentary surprise, then realized that haggling must be part of the process. He passed the parrot off to his left hand. The man had started to reach for it, but now pulled back, scowling slightly.

"Wait," McCormick gestured impatiently with the bird as he reached into his pocket with his free hand. "You haven't heard my offer." He scrabbled up what was there, then pulled his hand out and looked down at it. Three quarters. It was a start he figured. He was more accustomed to doing this over used auto parts; he had no idea what the going rate for plaster parrots was.

"Seventy-five cents," he announced with a flourish as he held his palm out. "Six bits. That's my bid."

He'd already shifted his gaze back to the parrot again when he heard the man's intake of breath. He only looked up in time to see the scowl already replaced by a nervous smile and an eager bobbing of the man's head. The parrot market must have been softer than he realized.

He cupped the coins and tipped them into the other man's hand. Then he cocked his head, gave his treasure a final shudderingly pleased look and said, "I don't suppose you have a bag for it?"

00000

"Whaddaya mean, you lost him?"

"I mean," Mark said, wearily patient, "that it's harder than you think to look inconspicuous in a place like that." He gestured over his shoulder and across the parking lot to the flea market. "It's a bunch of old ladies and women with strollers. I thought he'd spotted me. I had to buy something--you know, look like I fit in."

"And when you turned around he was gone?" Hardcastle said disgustedly.

"Yeah . . . pretty much. I spent a half hour looking for him—even in the men's room. He's gone, _vamoosed_, vanished."

The judge scratched his nose, then shook his head again. "I dunno, kid, you're loosing your touch."

"You try it."

"I woulda, but like I said, he knows me." Hardcastle sighed. "Okay, he didn't come out this way, but there's the lot on the other side. I'd say it's a wash for today."

He turned and opened the door of the truck. Mark sauntered around to the passenger side, the bag tucked under his arm.

"So whaddja buy?" The judge gestured with a jerk of his chin, once they were out on the road.

McCormick smiled, and set the package down on the floor. "It's a surprise. For you. You'll love it."

The judge grimaced. "How much'd it cost ya?"

"You're not suppose to ask that." Mark looked slightly shocked. Then he grinned and added, "Seventy-five cents."

"Looks like you got your money's worth . . . by the pound, at least."

"Sure did," Mark nodded, "solid plaster."

"But anyway, my birthday's past, so what's the occasion?"

"I dunno, have we got National Curmudgeon Day coming up? Either that or you'll have wait for Christmas."

"That's a long way off."

"It'll be worth the wait, trust me," Mark said. He was still smiling, but more distractedly. Something in the passenger side mirror had caught his eye. "This guy behind us, he's closing kinda fast."

It was a paneled truck, already too close to make out the front license plate, and there was no time for a comment from Hardcastle before the first impact. The jolt sent them shuddering off to the left and into the oncoming lane. The judge cussed once, clutching the wheel as he tried to haul them back across the yellow line before the next curve.

"He's coming on again." Mark said, still turned halfway round, staring back through the window at it. He had a full second to figure the trajectory, and now that they were angle on to the other vehicle, he knew it wasn't going to be good.

The second impact was harder than the first, and taken on the rear right corner. It spun them off to the shoulder, and into a ravine. He heard Hardcastle holler 'hold on', right before his forehead smacked into something unyielding.

00000

"You gotta figure if you're gonna go after guys like Traviato, every once in a while they'll go after you."

It was Frank and it was mostly directed at Hardcastle, but Mark wasn't in a position to go anywhere else, so he was stuck listening to the lecture as well.

"You're lucky it didn't turn out more serious," Frank went on, sounding like he was settling in for the long haul.

"Upside down in a ditch isn't serious enough for you?" Mark muttered, reaching up and feeling the lump on his forehead for the umpteenth time. Hardcastle, he noticed, hadn't said anything; he just sat there in the chair, his left wrist already casted. He was waiting for a sling.

"I dunno," Mark said, feeling like he was doing more than his share in this conversation, "there was nothing in the file to indicate he was violent and, like I said, that wasn't him behind the wheel."

"Stolen artifacts worth millions. He can afford a hit man," Frank said quietly. "And I thought I didn't have to worry about you two anymore."

"Spring break," Mark sighed. "Just keeping a hand in. A little surveillance, a little shopping." He frowned and turned back to the judge. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," the older man grumbled. "Just a wrist. I got two of them."

"Well," Frank stood there, arms crossed, "the truck's a total. I can give you a lift home when you're done here."

Mark tried to look properly appreciative. Hardcastle wasn't showing much gratitude.

"They'll tow it to impound so the tech guys can have a look at it, but it won't be much," Harper shook his head. "Maybe some paint, but it sounds like it was bumper on bumper. At least we got all your stuff out. It's in my trunk."

"My gun?" Hardcastle looked up.

"Everything. What was in the package?"

"His Christmas present." Mark jerked a finger toward the judge. "Is it still in one piece?"

"Yeah, I think." Frank shrugged. "Lemme guess, a fruitcake? Heavy enough for one. Kind of a long time until Christmas, isn't it?"

"They keep." Mark smiled.

00000

It was nightfall by the time Frank dropped them off, and Mark felt the usual disconnected dullness that came after a hard hit to the head. He supposed he ought to rustle up something for dinner. Hardcastle had a pain pill to take and neither one of them had had lunch.

He puttered in the kitchen, taking longer to make up his mind about things than was usual but finally getting sandwiches together—with a side dish of soup, which was all he really felt up to.

He almost tripped over the box in the hallway, on his way to summon the judge. He nudged it to one side with his foot, noticing Hardcastle had already extracted his items. All that was left was the flea market bag and a handful of Mark's tapes.

He'd deal with it later. He knew he'd be staying in the main house for the night. The judge had already made it clear that the discharge instructions for head injury would be followed and that meant staying with a reliable adult—Hardcastle would have to do.

"Dinner's ready," Mark announced as he stuck his head around the door frame.

The man was sitting at his desk, the Traviato file open in front of him and his chin propped on his good fist. He barely looked up, obviously preoccupied, and he grunted an acknowledgement. He lumbered to his feet, his left arm swaddled in a sling with his hand, and the clean white plaster, protruding slightly.

"Hey," Mark said lightly, "you gonna let me sign your cast?"

This got him a hmmph followed by, "Not a chance. You'd write something goofy and then I'd have to waste a whole bottle of White-Out painting over it."

"No faith," Mark said sadly. "I spend my spring break chasing your bad guys and getting run off the road for you, and this is how you repay me."

"They're not _my_ bad guys," the judge huffed. "They're everybody's bad guys."

"Yeah, but they only go after you . . . and anybody who's riding next to you." He ushered the judge into the hallway. "Careful of the box."

"Hey," Hardcastle looked down, "it could be a 'get well' present."

"Not for the guy who won't let me sign his cast."

00000

He got through the soup and a couple bites of his sandwich, just to avoid being nagged. The judge did only slightly better; he seemed distracted, though some of that might have been the pain meds.

"Go find a movie," Mark finally said. "I'll straighten up this stuff." He gestured to what wasn't very much of a mess.

It only took a few minutes, but when he returned to the den, he found Hardcastle back at the desk, still puzzling over the file.

"It doesn't make any sense," he said, looking up from the page he was studying. "Sure we were hassling him some, but why would he sic the dogs on us like that? That's just gonna up the ante, unless he took us both out completely, and that's hard to do with a crash like that—harder than most people think. A professional hit man wouldn't do it that way."

Mark slumped into a chair and leaned back, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. "No movie, huh? Next you're gonna want me to go downstairs and pull some more files for you."

Hardcastle shot him a quick glance, then shook his head. "Nah, not tonight." He closed the file and pushed away from the desk decisively. "You're on vacation, right? It can wait until tomorrow." He got up, adjusted the sling and moved over to his regular chair. "Tell you what, you can pick it." He grabbed the remote off the table next to him and tossed it over.

Mark fumbled the catch, and ended up scooping it off the floor. He stared at it a moment and then reached over and handed it back.

"Nah, you choose. I'm probably just going to fall asleep anyway." He frowned. "Guess I better go get my stuff." He glanced over his shoulder toward the front window.

Hardcastle already the TV tuned to his favorite oater station. He nodded. "Just don't trip over a flower pot or something. You're not hitting on all cylinders, if you ask me."

"Says the man who's down to one hand and taking pills that make him goofy." Mark stood slowly and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Goofy?" Hardcastle lifted one eyebrow.

"Yeah, you gave me the remote," Mark said, already on the steps. "I think it's the pain meds."

He heard a half-growled hmmph and then the stirring opening bars of a John Ford soundtrack as he opened the front door and stepped out. It was a pleasant night with the breeze coming in off the ocean. He thought the fresh air might do him some good and clear his head. He thought maybe Hardcastle was right—he wasn't one hundred percent--but that was to be expected under the circumstances.

He was halfway to the gatehouse before he realized he'd left the box on the hallway floor. He decided he was too tired to go back and get it. _Tomorrow_, he thought. That would be soon enough to deal with everything. He reached into his pocket, rummaging for the keys, glad he wasn't the one with the cast on—he hated them worse than anything, especially the no-driving-for-six-weeks that was the standard instruction that went with them.

He was mulling over his relative good fortune as he stepped inside and flipped on the light switch. He was in and out of the bathroom quickly enough, with what he needed gathered into his traveling kit. A change of clothes for the morning—he turned and headed up the stairs, slightly plodding, head down.

He didn't even see it before it hit him. There was only the impression of something large—man-sized—coming down fast, and then he was flying backward.

00000

Someone grousing at him to hold still, and the ceiling of the gatehouse—he recognized that. The voice was Hardcastle's.

"Don't move, okay? I'm gonna call an ambulance."

"Why?" Mark mumbled.

"'Cause you took a header on the stairs, that's why. I knew I shouldn'ta let you go wandering around out here on your own. You trip over the potted plants on a _good_ day."

"Don't need an ambulance." He got one hand on the floor next to him and started to push. "I'm okay."

"The hell you are." Hardcastle got in his way and it didn't seem like he was having to push back all that hard to stymie Mark's efforts. "You were out cold when I got here and who knows for how long? You got a new lump on the back of your head, and that's two lumps in one day."

"Not bleeding or nothin'." Mark reached up and slipped his fingers back behind his head. "Ow." The lump, definitely. "Look," he finally got his eyes all the way open, "I'm awake now, see? No blood. I can move my legs." He pushed back a little and finally got his head all the way off the ground. He blinked once. "And where'd the guy go?"

"What guy?"

"The one who pushed me down the stairs."

"That does it." Hardcastle was on his feet, heading for the phone.

"Wait a sec. There was a guy, really. I came in and turned the light on, and when I headed up the stairs, he ran down. Musta slammed into me." He was sitting now, on the bottom step. He turned and looked up over his shoulder at the shadowy recesses of the loft.

"A guy, huh?"

"Yeah," Mark straightened around and glared at him, "a _guy_. I believed you got run off the road by some goon in a truck this afternoon."

"You were there. You _saw_ it."

"I'da believed you even if I hadn't been there," Mark said, leaning his head forward and touching the lump again gingerly. "There was a guy and he was up in the loft."

Hardcastle pivoted and reached for the phone.

"I don't _need_ an ambulance."

"I'm not calling them," the judge said flatly. "I'm calling Frank."

He had the receiver propped between left shoulder and ear and was poised to dial when Mark spoke again.

"Wait a sec." He was still leaning forward, gently rubbing the spots that weren't lumpy. Now he raised his head slowly.

"Okay," Hardcastle said, "no ambulance, but why not Frank?"

"What's the point?" Mark said wearily. "He'll just give us anther 'I told ya so' lecture about Traviato."

"And have some techs go over this place."

"You think they'll find anything?"

The judge frowned, and apparently didn't have to give that much thought before he conceded, with a half-hearted shrug.

"And how long was I out here before you came looking?"

The frown had deepened. "Maybe fifteen minutes."

"So the guy is long gone."

"Leastwise you hope he is," Hardcastle grumped. "Listen, somebody tried to kill you. And here I am with one wing clipped and you with the lumpy head—Frank can maybe give us a little backup here."

"Kill _us_," Mark said quietly. "But not really," he corrected himself. "You said it yourself, about this afternoon—that was a really unreliable way to knock two people off. And tonight, hell, I wasn't even halfway up. I think I just got in the guy's way."

Hardcastle looked dubious.

"And let's face it, if he'd wanted me dead, he had some time to finish the job." Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. He was still having trouble focusing.

But the judge seemed to be giving it some thought, now. "I s'pose if somebody'd really wanted us dead, all they would've had to do was head over to the house with a gun."

"Exactly. The light was on in the den. Everything was dark over here. He wasn't looking for me, he was looking for . . . _something_. If he hadn't found it here, he probably would have hid out until we'd gone upstairs, then had a whack at the main house."

"What about this afternoon?"

"Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe that really was Traviato getting pissed and sending us a message."

"So what was this guy looking for tonight?"

"I dunno," Mark leaned his head back slightly, rested his elbows on the step behind him, "something." He closed his eyes. A second later they were open again, staring. "No way," he said softly, mostly to himself. "Impossible," he added with a little more insistence.

"What?" the judge asked impatiently. Then he frowned, as if he'd already gotten it without being told. "Nah," he shook his head a second later. "How could it be valuable if you only paid seventy-five cents for it? And what the hell _is_ it, anyway?"

"A parrot," Mark said, sitting upright again, "and, yeah, no way. What the hell would anybody want with a parrot?

"You got me a dead parrot?"

"Not dead," Mark pulled himself to his feet. "Plaster. Painted. It did look kinda old." He leaned heavily on the banister for a moment until he found his balance. "But the guy didn't want to sell it to me at first."

"So why did he?"

Mark thought about that one, then pushed off and headed for the door. "I thought he was just playing hard to get, kinda like 'I can't part with this', and I reached in my pocket for some change to, you know, start negotiations off low at my end."

He glanced over his shoulder at the man following him. Hardcastle looked mystified.

"You never spent much time in junkyards looking for spare parts, huh?"

The judge shook his head no.

"Well, that's how you haggle, right?" They were out on the walkway, side by side, with Mark gesturing. "They start high and you start low, only this time there wasn't any haggling. I took out seventy-five cents and he accepted." He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. "That must've been it. The three quarters. It must've been some kind of prearranged deal. He thought I was the guy he was _supposed_ to hand it over to."

"A parrot."

"Yeah," Mark said a little defensively. They were up on the front steps now, under the porch light. He could see the look that Hardcastle was giving him. "Okay," he admitted, "it sounds goofy."

The judge issued no protestations of denial; he merely turned and opened the door. The box was still there in the hallway. Mark let out a breath—a mixture of relief and a feeling that he might have been worried unnecessarily.

Hardcastle stepped over to it, looking down into the box. "See? Right where you left it." He jerked his chin toward the den.

Mark grabbed the bag and followed him, reaching in to free it from its newspaper swaddling. He set it upright on the desk and stepped back, giving it a jaundiced look.

"Sam Spade gets a Maltese Falcon; I get a plaster of paris Parrot."

Hardcastle crossed his arms and gave it an appraising study. He finally said, "It's kinda ugly, what was I supposed to do with it?"

"Impulse purchase. Usually a bad idea." Mark smiled ruefully. Then he picked the bird up and turned it slowly in his hands. "But why does somebody want it?"

"If you're even right about that."

"Aw come on. What else can it be? Your Jazz Masters' tape? My E Street hat? It's this." He hefted it.

"You're right, it looks kinda old. But _valuable_?" Hardcastle shook his head with a grimace and then, after a pause, "Unless . . . there's something inside." His gaze had gone slightly more intent, verging on piratical.

Mark caught the drift and clutched the parrot, pulling it back. "Wait a sec, hold on. What if it's the outside that's worth a lot? Maybe this is a classic example of precubist parrot art or something."

"In plaster?"

"You never know; the Sistine Chapel was done in plaster."

"Yeah, but I don't think Michelangelo did any work with parrots."

Mark frowned, still clutching the bird. He held it out a little bit, studying it again.

"We could drill a little hole in it," the judge coaxed. "From the bottom."

"What if there is something valuable inside? You could destroy it."

"Okay, maybe have it x-rayed."

Mark was still frowning. "Where?"

Hardcastle looked over at the clock, then back at McCormick. "The emergency room, I guess. They're the only thing that's still open."

"Oh, yeah, great." The frown had become a grimace. "First I get conked on the head, then I ask them to x-ray my parrot. They'll lock me up and throw away the key."

"So you admit it sounds loopy?" the judge said with some satisfaction.

"All right," Mark grudged, "maybe a little loopy, but have you got a better explanation?"

"Nope. But I know somebody who does know what the hell's going on."

"The guy who was poking around in the loft?"

"You got it in one. Not too bad considering all the lumps."

"So we wait around for him to show up again and then ask him?"

"Something like that."

00000

McCormick was spared being woken up every three hours during the night, only because he never slept for that long. They took turns keeping an eye on the place, with the lights out and a shotgun to hand. The parrot was locked in the file room.

All the precautions were for naught, or maybe they'd been too effective. He wasn't sure which. He only knew he was stiff and sore and would never buy anything at a flea market again, no matter how good the price was.

Breakfast revolved around coffee. There wasn't all that much conversation; they'd already discussed mostly everything the night before, what they could do if their prowler was a no-show for the rest of the night. It was time for plan 'B'.

"I dunno," he took another swig of coffee, "maybe we ought to get Frank involved."

Hardcastle looked up from the eggs he'd been poking. He looked hardly better rested than McCormick felt, but there was the old gleam in his eye.

"Nah," he said after a moment, in a pretty good imitation of casual disinterest. "Can't be pestering him about every little thing. He'd take one look at that parrot and laugh us out of his office. We wouldn't hear the end of it for months if it turns out to be a wash."

"But if it doesn't turn out to be one, you with the cast and me with the lumps—I don't know if we're gonna come up to scratch."

"So far it's just been one guy, and he's not trying all that hard to kill us."

Mark let one eyebrow go up. "Just how hard is hard enough?" He reached up to his forehead.

"—And this time we'll be prepared."

"And I'll be driving," McCormick added.

00000

They made no particular show of it, sauntering out the front door a little after ten. Mark was carrying the package, in the same bag as the day before. He opened the passenger door for Hardcastle, and help him ease down into the seat and fasten the belt. He figured wouldn't hurt their chances any if the man came across as slightly feeble.

The judge muttered something about not getting carried away. Mark grinned and passed the bag in to him before closing the car door and rounding to the other side. He lowered himself down into the driver's seat more carefully than usual, too. The headache had settled into a dull throb, but he was trying to avoid any jarring.

He looked around, trying to be casual about it, as he rolled down the driveway and out onto the street. He saw no one lurking and they didn't picked up any definite tails, at least not at the outset.

He was in a mood to be suspicious, though, and within a short ways, a van pulled out onto the road behind them. It was far enough back, though, to avoid being obvious or threatening. Mark nudged his passenger who said, "Yeah, I see it."

The problem with that stretch of the PHC was it offered very few opportunities for testing the theory that you were being followed, not without taking an absurdly scenic route that would end with them too far off the beaten path for security. Mark settled into driving with one eye on the rearview mirror.

They'd intentionally picked a place in Santa Monica, and it wasn't all that long a drive. Mark lost track of their possible pursuer as the traffic intensified. It might have been replaced by another vehicle, an older Buick with a front license so dirt-encrusted that it was unreadable, or maybe they had never been followed at all. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

He cruised past their destination, and into the designated parking lot around the corner. The Buick drove by, without any apparent hesitation. This meant nothing, Mark knew. There was no reason for the guy to hover if they had temporarily gone to ground.

He got out and crossed around to assist Hardcastle. Now that they were out in the open he felt ill at ease, as if they were putting a huge amount of faith on their unknown assailant's track record. He resisted the urge to hustle the judge along, but he felt entitled to a little paranoia.

For once it seemed as if Hardcastle was on the same page. Mark had seen the man cast a quick look around as he'd climbed out, and his pace was pretty brisk for a guy who'd been upside-down in a truck the day before.

The window display of the antique shop was attractively cluttered. Amid the items was a sign, neat and formal looking: "Appraisals given—by appointment". Mark shifted the bag to one arm as he opened the door. There was a tinkling of the shop bell, and a gray-haired gentleman, who looked the part of the proprietor, came out from the back.

"May I help you?"

There'd been no appointment, of course, and no intention of having an appraisal. Mark wondered how long their faux-appraisal should take, and how they'd kill the time, but he quickly realized he shouldn't have worried. Hardcastle had apparently been scanning the place as soon as they'd entered—not a plaster parrot in sight, Mark noted—and now he launched into an spirited inquiry about a display case full of antique fishing lures. He seemed to know his stuff, too, and the case was well into the depths of the store, away from the windows.

Mark put his package down and out of sight, then wandered back over to the window, hands in pockets, while the other two waxed prolix about Heddons, Pfluegers, and Shakespeare Minnows. He saw nothing remarkable outside, which is exactly what he'd expect to see if the guy doing the following was any good.

Twenty minutes passed, and he was beginning to think that they might walk out of there with a lure or two, maybe even a whole tackle box but, no, Hardcastle was drawing the discussion to a close. The package on the floor was given a quick glance by the shop owner, but no comment was made. He was, undoubtedly, used to people making the rounds and buying little.

Mark scooped up the bag and cradled it again, giving the man a quick, friendly nod as he saw Hardcastle to the door. Another tinkle from the bell and they were standing outside, with McCormick wondering if they'd accomplished anything. There was no Buick, no van, and no loiterers about. Still, they made good time back to the Coyote and Mark breathed a little easier once he had Hardcastle settled inside again.

"Whaddya think?" he finally asked, after they were out of the lot and rolling again.

The judge was squinting into the side mirror. "I think maybe that van looks familiar."

Mark shot a glance through the back window, then a longer look into the rear-view mirror. It was hard to say. Same model, same color, but their original companion that morning had kept his distance. If it really was the same, the guy was cautious. _Guys_, he pointed out to himself. There was no way this one could have picked up the scent without the Buick having been part of the chase.

"I think we should stop off and see Frank. Now we know there's at least two of them."

Hardcastle clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth and shook his head once, sharply. "Do that now and we've lost 'em, you know that."

Mark sighed. The man was right. All this dancing around with the 'appraiser' was bound to have brought things to a boil, if their parrot theory was right. Get this guy back to the estate and things should happen fast—and then they could all finally get some sleep.

The one thing he wasn't going to do was let that van get up on his bumper. He leaned on the accelerator a little, putting some space between them once they hit the open road.

"I'd kinda like to get to the OK Corral in one piece," Hardcastle said dryly.

"You drove yesterday; today is my turn."

He feathered the brake just slightly on the next decline. He frowned. The pedal felt wrong—slightly mushy.

"Dammit." He had no attention to spare for the questioning look he knew Hardcastle was giving him. The van was still back there, and now he was leaning full on the brake pedal with next to no response. "Brake line," he said tersely, and then, "at least we won't skid." He glanced up at the mirror and into the looming grill of the van.

"_Damn_."

00000

There was a siren, off in the background but coming on louder by the second. A man was looking in from above. He'd said something, which Mark wasn't sure he'd heard properly. His expression must've conveyed his confusion; the man leaned in a little closer and tapped his shoulder. "I said, are you okay?"

He wasn't, he was pretty sure about that. He thought about it for a moment, still drifting in gentle, half-aware confusion. He reached up slowly to touch his forehead.

And it all came slamming back into him like a guy flying down the stairs. "_Hardcastle_," he turned to right, sharply. He was still in the Coyote, but the passenger seat was empty. "The other guy," Mark looked up at his Samaritan, "is he okay?"

The face looking down at him pulled back a little. The man was obviously looking around, and just as obviously seeing nothing. "Just you, man. Hey, the cops are here." He stood back, looking relieved. "You'll be okay."

The black and white had pulled in behind him, but up on the shoulder above the ditch. Mark had already unfastened his belt, and was half out of the car.

"Take it easy," the approaching officer said, "you need an ambulance?"

McCormick started to shake his head, then just as abruptly, halted that and said, "No." He looked back into the car again. The package was on the floor of the passenger side, obviously hastily torn into, with the newspaper and padding of paper towels strewn about and its inner deception—a garden brick—revealed. There was something else down there. Mark ignored the officer as he reached back in to retrieve it—a folded piece of paper.

He swallowed once and slipped it into his pocket. The uniformed guy was asking him what happened.

"The brakes failed," he answered tersely.

It had to be fairly evident, he supposed. He'd come down from the shoulder and must've already seen there were no skid-marks there.

"I'll need to see some ID, and the registration papers."

Mark fumbled in his pocket, producing his wallet and the necessary items. He hoped his nervousness would be chalked up to the stress of the accident.

"Stay here," the cop said. He turned and climbed back up to his own vehicle to run the information while the Samaritan nodded once and slipped away to his own car before he could be tagged as a witness.

Mark barely waited for the departures before he pulled the paper out of his other pocket. He felt strangely precognitive as he unfolded it, and his suspicions made his hands shake even before he'd gotten to the actual words.

'TELL NO ONE. YOU WILL BE CONTACTED.'

Just that, but the block letters gave it the intensity of an order, and, besides, if he told anyone now, he'd be stuck for who knows how long in an interview room with some detective. He couldn't afford that right now.

00000

Even kept his mouth mostly shut. He portrayed the whole thing as a simple mechanical failure. The low-slung chassis of the Coyote was a help in that regard; it wasn't hard to convince the officer that his brake line had become torn due to natural causes.

And through it all—the paperwork and the summoning of a tow truck—he was impatiently aware of the passage of time. By the time the officer had finally signed off on the accident report, and the tow truck had extricated the Coyote, and hauled it up onto the flatbed, Mark felt himself twitching with anxiety.

"101 PCH," he said abruptly as he climbed into the cab beside the man.

"You don't want me to run it down to the shop?"

"_No_." It had come out a little harsh. And then, getting a grip on himself again, "I'll figure it out tomorrow."

"Just have'ta tow it again—"

"_Home_. Take us home," he said insistently, looking straight ahead, almost willing himself back to the estate. He felt the driver's stare. He didn't care what the guy thought, as long he got him back to Gulls Way.

Surely the man who'd written that note would understand this part—the delay. He'd have to realize that these things take time. But, meanwhile, there was no way to know what condition Hardcastle was in. If he wasn't home when the kidnappers tied to make contact, would they start in on the judge to try and find the damn bird?

_Was he even still alive?_ Mark tried to shake free from that thought, then paused. The throbbing was back in force.

He pointed out the turnoff to the driver—_thank God, finally_—and he was out of the truck almost before it had come to a complete stop. He left the man winching down the Coyote as he strode off toward the main house.

Still locked, still silent. He had his key already in his hand and opened the door. No one there, of course, and nothing looked disturbed. He made for the back of the house and the steps leading into the basement.

Hardcastle left the file room door unlocked, at Mark's advisement. A locked inside door was a general notice to burglars to focus their search for valuables to that room. He slipped inside—nothing looked disturbed there, either. He went to the middle cabinet, bottom drawer, which on first opening appeared to be an ordinary collection of files. The bird was behind them, wrapped in brown paper for extra camouflage.

He reached for it, aware of the rush of relief he'd felt the moment he'd opened the drawer and seen it was where they'd left it. He unwrapped it and set it on the table. He still had a bargaining chip, though he had no idea why anyone would think the damn thing was worth a man's life.

He felt an irrational anger toward it. What had merely been humorously ugly, now had taken on an air of malevolence. It was evident that the value was not in the thing itself, and he felt a desperate need to know what he was trading with, perhaps as a means of discovering who he'd be trading with.

He picked it up by the head and swung it without hesitance against the edge of the table—a dull whack with brittle overtones as pieces flew off and scattered to the ground. One more swing and all he had left was a head, and something hanging from it, swaying like entrails. He reached out for it, steadying it with his hand. It was a layer of waxy cloth, with the grit of the plaster still embedded in it, wrapped around a rectangular object. He pulled the upper corners free from the remaining plaster.

He tossed the head down on the ground and heard it shatter, too. He unfolded the stiff cloth and frowned at what was within. A book--no cover. It was small and thick, not more than four by six inches and a scant inch thick. Its pages were rough and uneven. It had the look and feel of great age.

There was no title page as such, only two words in slightly larger print--_Liber Ignium_--below which began the text, also in Latin. He sat down in the nearest chair. He thumbed through it—mostly Gothic-styled lettering, but there were lines written in a different hand, crammed into the margins and at the tops of the pages toward the back of the book. But it was just a book, old and with no cover.

He only sat for a moment, puzzling over it, then he was on his feet again and headed up the stairs. Hardcastle's desk, Hardcastle's address book. He pulled it out and leafed through the directory to the 'S's and found Bob Sturgis' number. He snatched at the phone, risking tying it up for a few minutes. He thought the man would be at home; it was spring break for the professors, too

Sturgis answered on the third ring, and there must have been something in the tone on Mark's end, because the second thing the professor said was, "What's wrong?"

Belatedly McCormick remembered the note and its admonition. He didn't think Sturgis would insist on bringing in the authorities, but he didn't have time to argue about it so he kept the explanation simple.

"Hardcastle and I are working on a case. We've got something odd, an old book, and we need to find out what it is, if it's valuable."

"What book? How old?"

"_Old_ old, I think. Latin old, at least. Looks like it's on parchment. No cover though, the front page might be missing, too."

"'Old' as in manuscript?" Sturgis said, sounding curious. "They didn't have title pages. And covers were a different department. Leather, wood, metal."

"Can you come take a look at it?" Mark was trying not to sound too desperate.

"I'm American history. Latin's a bit out of my bailiwick." Sturgis paused then added, "But I know someone, a really bibliophile. He'd probably jump at the opportunity."

"How soon?" The desperation was creeping out—he could hear it. There was nothing he could do about that. "We're kind of in a hurry. Is he available this afternoon?"

"Maybe." Sturgis sounded puzzled. "Probably, if he's around. It's spring break."

"Call him," Mark said urgently, "_now_, please. Can you bring him over here? I can't leave right now. I'm waiting for another call."

Professor Sturgis was one of the smartest men he knew, and he also, unfortunately, knew a lot about the way the Lone Ranger did business. He had a pretty good line on Tonto, too.

"Milt's in some kind of trouble," he said, and it came out as a statement of fact, not a question.

Mark didn't answer, which was answer enough. He just said, "Hurry. Please."

00000

An hour passed, and the phone rang only once. Mark jumped, and lunged for it, but it was only Sturgis, saying he'd been successful in locating Jeffery Franklin, professor of medieval history, and a rabid book lover, and they could be there shortly. After that, silence again, until he heard the car pulling in the drive. He'd fretted about that some, though he figured, once again, that even if he was under direct observation, he could hardly be blamed for the arrival of a couple of elderly gentleman. He hoped this Franklin guy didn't look like a cop.

He greeted them and ushered them in quickly. Sturgis' expert surpassed even Mark's hopeful expectations for bookishness. Stooped shoulders and a fringe of white hair, a long coat, despite the spring warmth—he might have been the guy who'd _written_ the damn book.

He led them into the study, trying not to hurry them along. "There," he said, pointing to the thing on the desk. "That's it."

Franklin slipped off his coat and draped it neatly over the back of a chair. Then he pulled a pair of white cotton gloves out of his pocket and donned them with quick, precise movements that made him seem suddenly younger, more focused. Mark realized with a sudden twitch of guilt that he'd paid no attention to sparing whatever fingerprints had been on the book.

The man picked it up and peered down at it, saying nothing for a few moments, just frowning, though the frown slowly gave way to an expression of bemused wonderment. He still hadn't said anything, though, and Mark found it hard to master his own impatience.

"So," he finally blurted out, "what is it? Is it valuable?"

The scholarly expert was wholly intent on the object and didn't seem to hear him at first. Then, just as suddenly, he snapped back out his mesmerization, and looked up at the other two men.

"_Liber Ignium—_The Book of Fire_._ It is a well-known medieval text on the subject of gunpowder."

Mark frowned. "They had gunpowder in the Middle Ages?"

"Certainly—earlier still in China, of course, and there are Arabic manuscripts from the thirteenth century. But this . . ." The man's voice trailed off. He peered down closely at the book, as if to confirm something. He turned the page and peered again. Then he held it out to Sturgis. "Look at the 'y's, this one here," he pointed with a glove covered finger, "and then that one over there." He pointed again. "See the nick in the descender? It's the same in both."

Sturgis looked and nodded. "The same." Then he raised his head and shrugged. "Movable type."

"Precisely," Franklin nodded back, "But here, on the first page, under the title, we see the dedication—'_Otakarus rex Bohemia_. There were two of them; both thirteenth century rulers of that country."

"A later copy, from a manuscript of that era?" Sturgis suggested gently.

"I am not aware of any early print edition of this text, and no manuscript copies at all originating in Bohemia."

"Wait a sec," Mark interrupted. Movable type, printing presses—now I know they didn't have those back in the 1200's."

Franklin was looking up at him, clutching the book a little tighter in his gloved hands. There was the same gleam in the man's eyes that Mark had seen earlier in Hardcastle's.

"There were rumors," the bibliophile half-whispered, "legends. I never thought to see any actual proof—"

Mark turned to the last rational expert in the room. "What the hell are we talking about?" he asked Sturgis insistently.

"That's all a lot of nonsense—like Prestor John." Sturgis shook his head and slipped easily into his casual lecture mode. "Early Western historians couldn't comprehend the notion that other cultures might have precedence in anything. There were always legends about the origins of technology—gunpowder, the printing process. Supposedly there were monks who invented those things in Europe, but the knowledge was suppressed as heresy, the work of the devil. The inventions were destroyed—the monks killed or disbanded."

"But Bob—" Franklin was turning pages, still carefully but more rapidly, "Look at the marginalia."

Sturgis couldn't look, of course, and neither could Mark. The other man had brought the volume up close to his own eyes and mouthed words silently to himself for a moment. He cleared his throat and began translating it out in eager bursts.

"I Mikulas, do commend this work to John the Youngest. Boneslaw is at the gate, his men surround us . . . we will perish in flame. I send him down into the place of the dead, so that this, our work, may be preserved."

He looked up sharply. "And this last part, here, it's in a different hand—'All is ended, in a great burning, there is no escape now except by the gates of heaven. Into thy hands I, Johannes minimus, commend my spirit.'

"That's it," he looked up again. "That's the end of it." There was a look of profound reverence on the man's face. "Gunpowder, if they had it—if the place had been put to flame and sword, the explosion would have doomed them all, accusers and accused, with no one left to stand witness to what had happened." He shook his head. "But better than the slow death of the judicial immolation—they used green wood for that."

"Then how did this book survive?" Mark asked impatiently.

"Caves, catacombs, ossuaries. There may have been such a place beneath the monastery. John was sent down into them with the book and entombed as a consequence of the explosion, but not immediately killed, apparently, though most likely his light failed before he had time to write very much."

_Time_. Mark shot a look up at the clock, and then at the phone which had stubbornly not yet rung. "So the book shows up, when, _how_?"

"A thousand different ways—the stone from the destroyed monastery might have been salvaged for reuse. The book fell into the hands of one of the laborers, someone who couldn't even read. It would have been a talisman, mysterious but with no known meaning."

"And seven hundred years later it turns up inside a parrot at a flea market in Los Angeles?"

"A parrot?" Sturgis frowned.

"A flea market?" Franklin looked confused.

"Long story," Mark sighed.

The bibliophile looked aghast. "This is the Holy Grail for a book lover. I've spent my whole life hunting down incunabula—"

"What are those?"

"The earliest of the printed books, anything published before 1500."

"So this is one of them?"

"Well, I'll grant you the provenance is a little sketchy," Franklin acquiesced. "But if it is real, it belongs in a whole new category. It's older than Gutenberg's Bible by at least a hundred and seventy years."

"Valuable then?"

"Priceless—as a historical artifact, quite possibly unique. If it's real," he looked down at the object wistfully. "If you'd lend it to me for a bit, I could examine it more closely."

"I . . . can't." Mark reached over and took it. He ignored the slightly scandalized look that Jeffery Franklin gave his barehanded grip on the book. "I'd like to, really, but if you walked out of here right now with this, your life would be in danger."

Franklin looked at him doubtfully, then shot a quick glance at Sturgis, whose expression cast no doubt on Mark's concern.

"I'd listen to him, Jeff. There are a lot of crazy people out there and some of them collect books. You of all people should know that." Sturgis' smile was thin, and faded quickly as he turned back to McCormick. "What about Milt, is he okay?"

"I don't know," Mark said quietly. "I don't even know who's got him." He put the warnings of the note aside in his desperate need to share his worry. "I was hoping to figure that out, maybe by who would be interested in getting their hands on this."

Franklin was listening, increasingly upset. "Someone's missing? You're giving them _this _in exchange?"

"That's what I think the deal is going to be; they haven't called me yet. Look," he said, at Franklin's concerned expression, "it's a book. It's valuable, but it's a book. Anyway, the guys who want it won't hurt it, right? It's _valuable_. I get Hardcastle back, and we can run them to ground." He clutched the book a little tighter. "If they call, _dammit_."

He sat there, staring intently at the phone, willing it to ring. He gradually became aware of Sturgis' equally intent gaze, directed at him. "I can't," he said quietly, answering the man's unspoken question. "I probably am in over my head, but if I go to the cops now, they'll at least take this," he held the book up slightly, "as evidence. It's got to be stolen property, right? Then I've got nothing at all to deal with, and no other information to give them."

Sturgis nodded his head once. Franklin looked less convinced.

"I'm sorry I got you two involved," Mark added. "It's possible they're keeping an eye on this place, too. I can't be sure. I'd suggest you leave your coats in here, walk out there and make sure if anyone is looking, that they can tell you aren't carrying anything. I think you'll be okay, but it might be best to spend the rest of the day in a public place, a restaurant maybe. I should have it settled in a few more hours . . . I hope," he added, looking even more anxiously at the silent phone.

"We'll be fine," Sturgis said calmly. "And you'll be careful, I hope."

"I always am." He smiled, ignoring Sturgis' worried and doubtful expression.

He stood, put the book down carefully on the desk, and herded them toward the door. It was a little ungracious, he realized, but he couldn't help it. The two men seemed to understand and Franklin even abandoned his coat without protest or comment.

At the door, though, the coatless, white-haired man cast one more wistful glance back toward the den. "A priceless artifact," he sighed, "if it's real. I hope you _will_ be careful." It was clear where the direction of his concern lay.

Mark nodded again, distractedly. As he opened the door he cast a quick look around—nothing, no one. He escorted them the short distance to Sturgis' car and watched them get in.

He retreated back to the house as soon as they'd driven away. He gave the book a long, jaundiced stare. The safe seemed the obvious place to put it, but too obvious, of course, and he knew from personal experience that safes weren't all they were cracked up to be. He considered the problem for a moment more, then snatched the thing up and hustled off with it.

He'd barely gotten it tucked it away—upstairs in a box on the floor of a closet, under a pile of Lone Ranger Comic books—before he heard the phone ring again. This time his hurried return to the den, and his grab for the receiver, was rewarded.

"Mr. McCormick is it?" The strange voice was heavy, slightly oily, with a layer of tense impatience beneath the ordinary greeting.

"What do you want?" Mark said, anxiously blunt.

"The bird, of course."

"In one piece?"

There was a harsh and knowing laugh from the other end. "Not necessary," the man said, "as longs as the _entrails_ are intact."

"And what do I get?" Mark answered, trying to keep his voice flat.

"A friend of yours, I believe."

"In one piece?"

Another harsh laugh and then the man said, a little coolly, "Well at least I didn't damage the plaster on mine."

Mark swallowed hard. "I'll need to talk to him first."

There was a pointed silence from the other end and then, "That isn't possible at the moment."

Mark felt his heart sink.

"You have a vehicle?"

"Yeah," Mark said dryly. "One left, no thanks to you."

"You will take it, drive north on the Pacific Coast Highway. A green van will pass you. Follow it."

"Why the hell should I do that?"

"Because you wish to see your friend. It is that simple."

"No book," Mark said sharply. "Not yet."

"Very well," the man said with an unconcerned air. "Make no _further_ attempts to contact anyone." From his inflection it sounded as if Mark's first transgression had been duly noted. "We will be expecting you soon."

There was a click on the other end as the receiver was hung up, quietly and with no undue haste. Mark settled his own back in the cradle and felt the breath go out of him. He'd hoped for reassurance and had gotten none, but he realized he'd been left with no option but to continue negotiations on the other man's terms.

_What would Hardcase do?_ He wouldn't fall for this freight load of half-voiced threats and unguaranteed promises, that much Mark was certain of. But he'd also realized a long time back that he wasn't Hardcastle and never would be. He turned and headed for the back door and the garage.

00000

He'd given only one concession to safety—spending a few moments to confirm that no one had slipped in and jerried the 'Vette while they'd been out that morning—then climbed into the car. He rarely drove Hardcastle's pride and joy and the oddness of being in its driver's seat added to his general unsettledness.

He drove, pulling out onto the highway and then keeping one eye directed at the mirror. He'd be damned if he'd let anyone shove him off into the ditch again and, even in this aging dowager of a sports car, he thought he was a match for anything that didn't get too much of a jump on him.

But the van, when it appeared, behaved in an unremarkable way. He let it ease up slowly, and then watched, a little nervously, as it made its move to pass on the next straightaway.

He breathed a little easier once it was in front of him, though there was hardly any reason for rejoicing. He followed docilely behind it. He could read the numbers on the license plate. He hoped that didn't mean he was never intended to walk away from this set-up—more likely, he hoped, the plates or the vehicle itself were stolen.

This thought occupied him until the turnoff. The van had politely signaled its intentions. They were well up, out of town, and the canyon road that they were entering looked seldom used.

A few miles and no other traffic. Another side road, this one barely qualifying as such, graveled and leading off to a small cluster of buildings that looked empty on a Sunday afternoon. The van pulled into the space between two of the structures and Mark tucked in behind, only to be waved up alongside by a man who had stepped out of the passenger side. He did his waving with a gun, something small but professionally handled.

"There," the man said, gesturing toward the open door of a storage shed. "Put 'er inside."

Mark nodded once and did as he'd been told. He recognized a sort of Rubicon as he pulled in, nose-first, to the dim and dusty interior. There was no backing out now, or, at least, if he tried, he'd most likely end up dead. There was a good possibility that was all that these guys intended anyway—Hardcastle already dead, him next, and then a good, long, uninterrupted search of the estate, looking for parrot entrails.

He sighed. This kind of thinking was pointless, and he'd already made up his mind to do whatever he had to do. He climbed out of the car, slowly—no threatening or sudden moves. He turned and saw the guy, more gestures, this time toward the back of the van. He walked over, a casual, ambling gait. The guy with the gun had never wavered in his attention or aim. The rear door opened from within and another man stepped down.

"Turn around." The first words the gun man had uttered and the tone was matter-of-fact and workmanlike, rather than hostile. These guys had the air of professionals. He saw the cuffs in the second man's hand. He turned and a moment later felt it on his right wrist, ratcheted down—secure but not painful. He cooperated. There was no point in not doing so, no point in arguing. These guys probably had their instructions and he had no desire to test the limits of those.

Once both wrists were fastened, there was a quick but thorough search, then the second man gave him a boost under the arm and he settled into the back of the vehicle. There were no seats, and only a little light back there from the front window. The sight-lines were limited and even these were banished a moment later with a blindfold.

"Great," he muttered, though he'd been more than half expecting it and thought he should be grateful for the precaution. It was a glimmer of hope for his survival. His remark got a quick muffled laugh from one of the other guys. They probably thought he was a complete idiot for showing up at all.

The other two were moving around, though Mark suspected that one was settling down in the back with him. No one said anything. The silence was uncanny. He heard the van start up again, crunching on the gravel as it was maneuvered onto the road. A left turn, back to the PCH, which meant the options for their eventual destination had opened up again.

He tried paying attention to what he was hearing, but realized the sound of his own heart pounding was distracting the hell out of him. It was the certain knowledge that he'd be _somewhere_ soon, and would know the truth.

But 'soon' took a while, and he lost track of the turns. He thought there might have been a couple of double-backs. He only knew for certain that they were back on an unpaved road, and he'd heard no other traffic for a while. How long a while was relative; it seemed like forever.

Then they were turning, one last time, and pulling up a slope very slowly, then coming to a halt. He stiffened a little. He heard someone moving past him, the door opening. He hadn't been aware of how stuffy it had gotten in the storage area, but now there as a touch of coolness, elevation maybe, to the air.

He could see nothing through the blindfold, not even the quality of the light. All this silence was daunting, but he was still unwilling to speak first. Someone had him by the arm and was encouraging him back, until his feet reached the edge of the bumper. He got down and stood up.

"Bring him in here." It was the voice he'd heard on the phone, he was certain of that. "Did he give you any trouble?"

He heard a non-committal grunt from one of the other guys. Presumably they didn't want to make their job look too easy. He cleared his own throat and said, "No, I did what you said." He was surprised at the calm tone he'd managed. It might have been the calmness of resignation.

"Good," the man said, sounding pleased with himself.

Mark didn't like that much. He was ushered again, being moved more quickly than he felt comfortable with but apparently on a level path. His unseen guide paused, then nudged his arm. Steps, it seemed, and he was coaxed up them and through a doorway. A hard-surfaced floor, and a feeling of resonance to what little sound there was—their footsteps mostly—and the oily-voiced man saying, 'This way,' in a tone that had gone impatient and imperious.

More doors, more steps, downward this time and slightly uneven, like stone. He stumbled once but was steadied. Then another progression along a slightly echoey passageway, and, just when he was beginning to get a little impatient himself, they halted. Still the stone floor. _The dungeon_, Mark thought. He felt someone yanking at the fastenings of the blindfold, and then it was tugged free.

He blinked and squinted then ducked his head. There was an unshielded bulb in a coned fixture, directed at him. It had all the trappings of an interrogation, but there was more the impression of a utility room, than a torture chamber. He saw shelves off to his side, a bucket, bottles and jugs of various sorts. Windowless, of course. There was one man standing behind him and the other, so far only a voice, speaking from beyond the light—no questions through, merely instructions.

"You will go through the door behind you, when it is opened. You will have five minutes, no more."

He heard metal rattling against metal and started to turn. "The handcuffs—"

"Stay on," the man said. "Just a precaution."

It didn't matter, McCormick supposed. Even the professional search that had been conducted earlier hadn't found the key he'd slipped into his sock back at the estate. It was one of Hardcastle's spares, purloined from his desk, and it was marginally faster than a pick in dealing with cuffs. It was one of those things you don't leave home without, in Mark's opinion.

He didn't give that much more thought, though, as the door creaked open and he was shoved firmly forward. He heard it close behind him. He was still seeing purple spots from the lamp encounter, and felt slightly out of balance without the use of his hands. But he stayed on his feet and a few more blinks cleared his vision enough to make out a figure on the floor in the corner of the small room.

"Judge?"

The man was sitting up, his casted arm lying in his lap. The sling was gone and his other wrist was manacled and fastened to the wall by a chain no more than two feet long.

"Dammit," Hardcastle muttered. "You, too, huh?

Mark had a sudden notion that he shouldn't do anything to dispel the judge's belief that they'd both been kidnapped from the scene of the wreck. He dropped down to a crouch, partly to get a closer look and partly to liberate the key from his sock. He had it out and his left wrist free a moment later. He stuffed the key back in his sock, not bothering to free his right wrist; this was enough to allow him to inspect the other man's injuries.

Bruises, most definitely on his face, and more systematic than he thought would be accountable from a mere car accident. There wasn't all that much light in their cell, just a low wattage bulb glowing in a grill-covered niche near the door. The chamber had a vaulted ceiling and no furnishings. A very practical dungeon, though Mark suspected it had begun life as a wine cellar. He tipped Hardcastle's chin up, slightly, trying to make out his pupils in the gloom.

"_Hey_," the man grumbled, with no free hand to push him away. Mark was relieved to hear him complain, though it wasn't all that directed a protest, more a general grousing at being moved.

"Hey yourself," Mark said quietly. "What's the damage?"

The man looked up at him blearily and took a moment to answer, as if he had to think about it. "Aches and pains," he said finally. "Nothing fancy. How 'bout you?"

"My pride, mostly. I thought I could out-drive a van."

"Guess you're losing your touch." Hardcastle managed a smile, despite a swollen lower lip. "Guess maybe we both are." His smile had shifted slightly, to something more like a grimace.

"Nah," Mark said quietly. "This thing just snuck up on us." He glanced over his shoulder, and then around the room briefly. He thought it likely that they were being listened to. He settled in on the floor next to the judge. "I think sometimes you have to pick your battles."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"I think maybe some things are worth taking to the wall, and some things aren't."

Hardcastle's grimace had become a frown, but he had both eyes open further and was giving him a searching look. "How bad are you hurt?"

"I'm okay," Mark said with a small smile and a shake of his head. "Really. I don't know about you though." He reached across and picked up the judge's right wrist. The manacle was something almost medieval looking and wouldn't be susceptible to the handcuff key, maybe not even to a pick. He sighed. The five minutes would be up soon anyway. "Listen," he said, not making any attempt to keep his voice down, "they won't let me stay in here much longer."

"Why'd they let you in at all?"

"Because I told 'em. Otherwise it was no dice." There, he'd said it.

The storm was gathering, visible even among the bruises on Hardcastle's face. "Dammit, if you're thinking you can make a deal with these guys—"

"I can't _not_ make a deal. You got that?" Mark said sharply. "And you don't even know what I'm trading with, so how the hell do you know I shouldn't?"

"I know if you give up your leverage, you've got nothing . . . and they'll have you, me, and the damn bird, too."

Mark had already thought that one through—how hard it would be to set things up in any way that would give them even half a chance of coming out of this alive. "I know that," he said quietly, "but I gotta try."

The judge reached over with his right arm, as though to thump him on the shoulder. The chain pulled him up short and he frowned at it before saying, in a low rumble, "Listen, if they let you out to get them what they want, you keep right on going." He dropped his voice even lower. "You don't come back here—"

"I don't even know where 'here' is," Mark replied in mounting frustration.

"That oughta make it easier," the judge said, with an infuriating air of irrefutability.

Mark shook his head and bit his lip. He finally said, "I oughta . . . I oughta just _once—_" then looked up in startlement as he heard the grating of the lock again. It didn't seem possible that the time could already be up. He reached around his back with his right hand holding the free cuff and quickly snagged his left wrist.

He was sitting there, a picture of compliant innocence, by the time the door was fully open. There seemed no reason to give away the trick at this point. It might still have some use.

It was the second guy from the van, motioning him to his feet. Mark momentarily regretted the unfinished argument, which had been stupid, since neither none of them was going to convince the other. He wondered if it would be their last, in which case it was stupider still.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly as he got to his knees. "I'll try and do the right thing." He got one foot flat on the ground and then he stood.

He couldn't see the judge's face clearly enough anymore, to see if he'd accepted the compromise. There might have been a nod, or maybe he was just lowering his chin again, resigning himself to the inevitable. This wasn't at all Hardcastle-like. He wished he'd had a chance to see if there were more serious injuries.

But there was no more time. He was hustled out and the door was closing behind him before he even had a chance to say goodbye. The other man from the van was holding out the blindfold. The lamp was off and the third man was gone.

"No," Mark said, harshly determined. "I'm not leaving until I talk to your boss again.

The two kidnappers looked unhappy. The one in charge of the blindfold stuffed it into his pocket with a wordless grumble and departed. The other looked merely put out.

It wasn't all that many minutes before his partner returned and gestured silently for McCormick to follow. The blindfold was dispensed with, and now Mark could see his surroundings for what they were—the stone floor gave it away, perhaps part of a former mine. It was too regular in its layout to be a natural cave, but attempts had been made to domesticate it. There was dark wood wainscoting, and above that the stone walls had a layer of cream-colored paint. The lighting here came from sconces at regular intervals along the walls, as though the place were an extension of a living area.

It did not seem as far back to the flight of stone steps, now that he wasn't blindfolded. They passed several closed doors. The man leading him stopped in front of the last door on their right, just before the stairs.

Two quick, sharp raps. A voice from within—the same disembodied one as before—said, "Enter."

The door was pushed open and he was given a sharp shove between the shoulder blades. He staggered in, catching his balance and squinting again, into the unshielded bulb of yet another lamp.

The unseen man said, "This'd better be good."

Mark swallowed hard. He had a feeling it wasn't. But he mastered his doubt and said, "My friend is a pretty good judge of character. He says if I give you what you want and then expect you to let him go, I'm even stupider than he'd thought."

This at least got him a low, rumbling chuckle. When that had subsided, the man went so far as to say, "Very good, Mr. McCormick."

Mark squinted up for a moment, a vain attempt to see the expression that went with the voice. Too bright. He only had an impression of dark-spined books, on floor to ceiling shelves to either side of where he stood.

"It seems to me," the man drawled, "that you don't have much choice in the matter."

"I do as long as I have what you want," Mark shot back.

"Not when I have what you want as well."

The man seemed amused. Mark supposed that was better than having made him angry.

"Listen," he lowered his own voice to something less confrontational, more persuasive, "my friend is right, there's no guarantee I'll get anything if I give you the book. I might as well set a match to it as hand it over."

There was a sharp, almost nervous laugh from the far side of the lamp, and then a not very conciliatory, "So if you do not trust my intentions, what would you suggest we do?"

"Send _him_." Mark leaned forward, ignoring the cuffs, speaking very quickly and earnestly. "Keep me here."

He could almost hear the frown of puzzlement in the brief silence that followed. The man finally said, "And how does that resolve the issue for you, Mr. McCormick?"

The question was obviously rhetorical; he had no chance to answer before the man said, "No, I think I prefer my own terms. Your friend doesn't seem very amenable to persuasion. And, besides, he doesn't know where the book is. He didn't even know there _was_ a book."

"You asked him, huh?"

"Repeatedly," the man said dryly.

Mark swallowed again. "He wouldn't tell you, and neither will I. We're here, and it's out there somewhere, and we'll run you ragged looking for it. Sooner or later someone will notice we're missing and, who knows, by then we may be dead, but it'll be nothing but trouble for you and you _still_ won't have the damn book. That's what'll happen if you insist on doing it your way. All I know is I won't leave him here while I go off and fetch it for you."

He'd kept it low and very intent. He still couldn't see what effect he'd had.

"Send us both," he said coolly. "My last offer."

Dead silence, and then another laugh, this one more surprised than amused. Mark got the notion that he was testing the man's patience and the consequences might be dangerous. He rushed back into the negotiations. "Why not? Send your men with us—I'll cooperate; I've done that up till now, haven't I? They go along. I hand it over. We're done with each other."

There was a disbelieving grunt from the other side.

"I don't even _want_ the damn book," Mark added sharply. "I just want some insurance that you won't kill him the minute I step out of here, and there's none you can give me short of sending him along."

The other man said nothing, which was better than an immediate 'no', Mark supposed. "That's the deal," he said flatly. "Take it or leave it. Full cooperation versus a couple of the stubbornest mules you'll ever meet."

He held his breath, which wasn't easy to do while maintaining an air of overwhelming confidence. He heard a light, impatient sound from the other side of the room. Fingers tapping on a hard surface. It probably helped, he thought, that the man had already dealt with one of the mules.

The silence stretched out. Mark was inclined to consider that as a sign of hope. He clung to the notion that the man's behavior thus far, while ruthless, hadn't been unnecessarily violent. And then, at the point where he'd nearly given up, he heard him let out a breath and say, sharp and curt, "Very well."

The man's voice rose to something closer to a shout—imperatively summoning his henchman from the hallway.

"The blindfold again," his head captor insisted wearily when the door had opened. "Get the other man."

Mark had a moment to see the surprise on the assistant's face. It was rapidly replaced by the kind of flat, unquestioning acceptance that was the consequence of very good pay. Then the blindfold was back in place and things moved quickly.

He heard the lamp switched off, and the movement of the guy in charge as he stood and announced, "A change of plans. We're all going." Again no protest or question from the henchman. The boss had made it sound as though it had been his own decision.

The hallway was more familiar now, and the journey, even sightless, seemed shorter. That along with the buoyancy of relief, even if unwarranted, carried McCormick. He couldn't tell if they'd stopped in the same antechamber until he heard the creaking lock, the latch being thrown, and the door opening.

There were sounds, more grumbling from Hardcastle, which sharpened to a protest. Mark presumed he was being blindfolded, too. He said, "Let's get it over with, Hardcase. I wanna get out of here."

"What's going on?" He heard the judge's voice from nearer at hand a few moment's later.

"Don't reach up," one of the henchmen said. "Touch it and you die." This was obviously directed at Hardcastle. The progression to naked threats did little to lower the tension in the room. There was more grumbling from the older man, a sound that Mark found somehow both worrisome and reassuring.

"New plan," he said quietly, as they were escorted back into the hallway. He heard Hardcastle stumble slightly. "Careful," he said. "Let 'em help you, okay? There's some steps up here." Having said that, he missed the first one himself and felt the yank on his arm almost too late.

"Where we going?" the judge asked again, this time from not far behind.

Mark shook his head philosophically. "I almost convinced him to send you instead of me. Then we woulda seen how easy all this talk about just walking away is. Hah." He was half-smiling. "But now we're all going to go get it, instead. That okay with you?"

"Did I get a vote?"

"No."

They were outside again, the last few steps down to the dirt surface. Mark felt the hand let go of his arm and the heard the back door of the van open.

"In," someone said.

He supposed it might still be a trick, that the man thought it would be easier if they got him away from this place and then resumed negotiations.

"Him first," he said firmly.

Somebody muttered something about nuisances but then he heard, over that, the aggravatingly oily laugh again and the man in charge saying, "Get them both in there and one of you keep an eye on them. What the hell am I paying you for?"

"Kiddnapping, extortion, battery—" Mark retorted grimly. Someone thumped him on the back and his knees hit something hard—the rear of the van. He crawled up into it and was barely inside before he heard the door slamming behind him. His suspicions rose up and nearly panicked him. "You here?" he asked urgently. The vehicle jerked into motion and toppled him into a wall.

"Here," the judge said quietly.

"Siddown," someone else ordered, from not more than a few feet away.

He sat, sidling up against the wall, wondering if they'd fastened Hardcastle's right wrist to anything.

"You okay?" he asked, not that he thought the answer would be worth anything, but he wanted to hear him speak—to try and triangulate their relative positions in the van.

"I'm fine," Hardcastle muttered. And then, "Well, maybe not _fine_."

Mark thought this was the first honest admission he'd gotten out of the man that afternoon. It was also a clear signal—for a guy like the judge it was something tantamount to waving a huge red flag. It had been hard to tell on their brief, blind journey to the van, but Mark suspected the man was in worse shape even than he'd appeared. It had to be so, because here he was, throwing out signals that he might not be ready to help in any counteroffensive.

McCormick settled back. Counteroffensives weren't on his agenda. He'd meant what he'd said to Sturgis and Franklin—no book was worth dying for; he didn't care how old it was, or how unique. His only concern right now was convincing the guy who wanted it that it was in his best interest to simple take the thing and walk away.

He was sunk deep in the ways and means of that, wishing he could at least run his ideas past Hardcastle, when he became aware that they'd turned and picked up speed. Obviously they were back on the Pacific Coast Highway. He figured they would bypass the shed where the 'Vette had been stored. This didn't disturb him too much; it would simplify matters if they went straight to the estate, but that meant there wasn't much time left.

And suddenly they were braking, violently, with a shout and a screech of skidding tires and a jolt that propelled him forward into someone—Hardcastle. He felt his head thump the cast and a groan from the judge himself.

More shouts and the rear door of the van being yanked open. He didn't have time to figure anything else out before a hand grabbed him by his uppermost arm and dragged him backwards. "Stand," a voice said.

Mark fought down a wave of nausea, there was dizziness, too, despite the blindfold. "Wait a sec—"

Another set of hands, he wasn't being given any choice in the matter and no time to think about it, either. "Hurry," the voice said with even more insistence. Mark hadn't felt the muzzle of a gun yet, but it seemed likely that it was out there. He lost track of things for a moment, and then was sitting down again, this time on what felt like the rear seat of a car. It was bright; someone had removed the blindfold. The car was in motion.

He was slumped toward the left-hand window. He struggled to sit up and realized someone was trying to help him. The man looked familiar, though it took Mark a moment to connect all the dots.

"_You_," he pulled back from the man's grasp. He looked around dazedly. There were two other men in the front seat. That's all there were. Mark blinked and looked around again. "You're the parrot guy," he said, turning back to the man next to him. "You sold me that damn parrot."

The man was nodding, smiling with a hint of nervousness.

"Who are you?"

There was a slight frown. "Ludvik," the man said. "Brother Ludvik."

"I'm not giving it back, dammit." Mark got himself all the way upright, despite the renewed pounding in his head. "Where's Hardcastle?" he asked. Panic had arrived in full force. Then staring at the man again, "Who the hell _are_ you?"

The whole increasingly pressured series of questions had taken very little time and now the other two men were casting worried looks over their shoulders as if they weren't sure what to say first.

"We are sorry," Ludvik bobbed his head in apparent apology. "We would have rescued you sooner, but Brother Emaus," the man in the driver's seat blushed, "lost sight of the van. We could only wait and pray that they would return this way.

"You _rescued_ me? What about the judge? Where _is_ the van?" He looked over his shoulder and out the rear window. He didn't know how far they'd gone because he had no idea where they'd been. He tugged at his wrists in momentary aggravation, then leaned sideways and fished out the key again.

He had the handcuffs off a moment later and reached forward to lay an insistent hand on the driver's shoulder. No one tried to stop him.

"How far have we come?"

The man looked down at his dash, then up again with a worried shrug and a glance that took in the others. "A few miles, maybe."

"Did they follow us? Were they all right?" he asked frantically.

"Ah," Ludvik interrupted hesitantly, "they were shaken. We would have taken precautions if they had appeared capable of pursuit."

"Hardcastle," he said and then, having drawn a blank state. "The other guy in the back, the older guy."

"We were rescuing you," Ludvik said, betraying a hint of disappointment at the reception of their efforts.

"_Dammit_, turn the car around." Mark was sitting sideways now, staring out the back window intently. To his surprise, no one protested. The driver pulled over efficiently, and then made a thoroughly illegal u-turn. Mark turned forward again.

"You can't have it back," he said again, this time a little more cautiously, but still firm. "I need it."

"Of course," Ludvik said, and then ventured a small smile. "It's _yours._" The smile had taken on a beatific gleam that somehow reminded McCormick of how Jeffery Franklin had looked when he'd first realized what the book was.

"Why?" Mark said, with a shade more suspicious narrowing to his eyes. "Why is it mine?"

"Because you paid for it," Ludvik said with a smack of satisfaction.

"Three pieces of silver, freely offered," the front-seat passenger piped in, as if he were quoting.

"Shh, do not speak lightly of the ritual," Ludvik admonished and then, to Mark, "though Brother Karel does but say the truth. The ritual was fulfilled and the book is yours."

"You know about that, huh? The book?"

"Of course." Ludvik beamed. "That was the point, for the book to find its master."

"Me? Uh-uh. Big mistake. You said silver? They don't make quarters out of silver anymore."

"The exact meaning of the term 'argentum' has been much debated among the faithful. It very nearly led to schism in the 15th century, but the orthodox view is that the words 'money' and 'silver' were interchangeable in ancient Rome." Ludvik smiled didactically. "And, in any regard, the devaluation of coinage is an old principle."

Mark sat there, mouth slightly ajar. It only snapped shut when he heard Brother Emaus announce proudly. "Here, this was the spot. See those glass shards? Those were the headlights."

He pulled off the road, looking pleased to have been of service in the rescue. Mark was scrabbling for the door almost before they'd come to a halt. He was out a moment later, his heart pounding. It was obviously the site of a recent accident. There were skid marks, and an uprooted bush in addition to the bits of glass.

But there was no van, and no signs of it in either direction.

No amount of muttered cussing could reverse the facts. All it had produced was matching expressions of nervous concern on his three rescuer's faces.

"Home," Mark finally said. "Now." He realized he had no other option. Assuming the mysterious kidnapper had any willingness to trust him again, that would be the place where contact would most likely be made.

He herded his flock back into the car with sudden efficiency. It was nearly dusk and he'd already lost his grip on a big chunk of time. He let Brother Emaus drive. Things kept going in and out of focus in the dwindling light, and Mark felt a brutal headache coming on.

"Here," he said. Emaus took the turnoff into the estate. Mark saw something as the pulled up the drive. It made him lean forward and squint again. Cars, Professor Sturgis', for one, and the other a nondescript fleet vehicle that was very familiar.

They were out on the front steps, as though they'd spent some time discussing things already. Frank had his hands in his pockets and wore a grim expression. That lightened slightly as Mark stepped out of the car, compounded by growing confusion as the rest of the entourage emerged.

"It wasn't Traviato," Mark said.

"That's what I heard." Frank jerked his chin toward the two older men. Sturgis looked slightly guilty.

"We went over to the library at the university," Franklin explained hastily. "We discovered some very interesting facts."

"And we started to get worried about you," Sturgis added.

Frank gave them a look of disbelief as he said "'_Started_'? Then he turned sharply toward Mark. "Where's Milt?"

He felt suddenly colder and the problem with focusing was back. He wasn't sure how he looked, but it couldn't have been good because Frank was reaching forward for him and saying, "Inside, _now_."

The lieutenant had him by the arm. He was fumbling in his pocket for his keys—Frank took over that, too, grabbing them from his hand. Then they were inside, with the rest of the little procession somewhere behind them.

Mark felt himself being pushed down firmly, a chair behind his knees, the rushing sound clearing. He looked up and saw Frank still waiting for an explanation. A few moments might have passed; Sturgis was already back from somewhere and holding a glass of water out to him.

"Thanks," he managed, and as he took it he noticed, distractedly, that his hand was shaking.

Frank was still waiting, and none too patiently. Mark tried to get it out coherently, though it wasn't easy to do with the materials available.

"_Another_ car accident?" Harper said when they'd gotten to that juncture.

Mark nodded slowly. Now they'd arrived at the part where his own personal bad judgment had taken over, though even now, thinking back through it, he wasn't sure how he could have done things differently.

Frank obviously disagreed. After listening to Mark's halting reasoning for a while longer, he finally interrupted. "A call, to me, just one call. That's not much to ask for."

Mark lowered his head for a moment and then brought his chin up sharply, despite his weary discouragement.

"Not _one _call," he said. There was a note of defiance back. "You know it wouldn't have been that. You never would have let me try to make the exchange. The book would have been in limbo; I'd have been stuck here answering a hundred questions. Look at this; look at us now, and this is just _you_, Frank."

"Lot of good it did, you going with those guys." Harper rubbed his chin.

"It _almost_ worked," Mark muttered, casting a disparaging look at the acolytes, now huddled together silently over by the mantle. Then he blanched again, thinking about what might have happened had the van made it all the way to the estate: Frank and the professors waiting on the porch, easy targets, and Hardcastle and him still out of commission in the back of the van. "Almost," he said again, without so much certainty.

Then he looked up at Frank again. "I don't know what to do now. What if he doesn't call again? I have no idea who the guy is, _where_ he is."

Jeffery Franklin cleared his throat. "These gentlemen here," he nodded in the direction of the men by the mantle, "might contribute something to the process." He turned to them. "You are the _Perigrinus_, are you not?"

At Ludvik's eager nod, Franklin cast a quick, pleased look toward Sturgis. To the room at large he said, "There was much more to the legend than I had remembered; our trip to the library was very helpful. Magister Mikalus was himself _perigrinus—_'one who wanders'. Quite possible it was as far as China, at least to the Middle East. According to the tales, he returned from his journeys with a wealth of information, discoveries which might easily have shifted the balance of power in central Europe. He was apparently difficult to control, and therefore dangerous to the status quo

Ludvik and his companions looked slightly less pleased. Franklin had apparently departed the text. "We are the _Perigrinus_—there were three who were sent out, to gather the materials that were needed."

"Sulfur and charcoal," Franklin said, "and lead of course—

"Bullets and powder?" Mark asked.

"Type and ink. More dangerous by far."

"A revolution," Sturgis said quietly. "That's what it would have been."

"But the _perigrinus_ weren't there when Boneslaw's men attacked the monastery," Franklin added. "They returned to find all in ruin, the walls collapsed in on themselves and everyone perished.

"Friend and foe, alike," Ludvik said. "The remains of all the brothers were found except for Master Mikalus. No trace of him at all."

"Probably because he was the one who detonated their store of powder," Franklin said.

"_No_ trace," Ludvik scowled, "not so much as a finger."

"And so the legend has it that Mikalus will return." Franklin spread his hands expansively. "Originally it was seven years, then seventy. Now, I believe, they are holding out for seven hundred."

"The texts are obscure," Ludvik muttered. "_Manuscripts_," he added derisively.

"So you guys pulled the book out of the ruins?" Mark asked. "No, _wait_," he put his head down in his hands, "you're not actually them. You don't think that, do you?"

Emaus fidgeted slightly. Karel stood quietly, but his gaze was cast down. Ludvik frowned and finally said, "Three there are, and always three. We are the three."

"And when one of us dies, we choose another," Emaus admitted. The other two nodded solemnly.

"Thank God," Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked up at Franklin again sharply. "And how does all this help Hardcastle?"

"The library," the man began again.

Mark cut him off with a quick gesture. "'Help', _how_?"

"Jeffery spends a lot of time there," Sturgis said. "He knows the staff. They consult him sometimes."

Mark's expression was turning swiftly less tolerant.

"The materials—the older, rarer things—there is a record of requests."

McCormick sat bolt upright while Sturgis dug in his pocket.

Franklin nodded and smiled. "You have to register if you aren't a member of the university." The smile fluttered hesitantly for a moment. "I told them a bit of a story, that I'd been discussing one of the items with a fellow researcher and had misplaced his name."

Harper had beaten Mark in the grab. "Travis Witcomb," he read off the piece of paper. "The address is out in the sticks, up by Fillmore. That sound about right?" He was turning to reach for the phone.

"_Wait_," Mark put his hand out, topping the receiver first.

"It's gonna take time to set things up."

Mark wavered for a moment and finally said, "You'll give me a chance, first. If he calls, you let me do the deal?"

"You trust him?"

"Of course not. But he might let me get inside again."

"Only so he can make sure there are no witnesses after it's over."

"If you surround the place, it'll help to have somebody on the inside who knows what's going on. The guy's not crazy."

"Actually," Franklin interrupted, "I'd say he is, as book people go. He's a bit of a legend himself. Very reclusive, with a world class collection of incunabula."

Harper looked puzzled. "Incu-what--?"

"Books printed before 1500," Mark said tersely. "Okay, so he's a little crazy. You're still going to need someone to deal with him on the inside. Do we have a deal?"

Harper exhaled heavily, rocked back on his heels for a moment, and then said, "It won't be my jurisdiction. Hell, kidnapping, that's federal."

"Which is why you have to give me a chance to play this thing out, Frank," Mark said, hearing the urgency in his own voice.

"If the guy even calls." Frank shook his head slowly but finally sighed, "Okay—_if_—but how long do you expect me to give him?"

Mark's hand relaxed on the receiver. He started to ease back, into the chair, and the phone rang.

00000

"I'm out of cars," he said. He'd been pacing relentlessly since he'd finished his brief arrangements with Witcomb. Frank had just finished his own third phone call and looked up from the notebook in which he'd been jotting things.

"Not yours," Mark said abruptly. "You'll need it. And I can't use theirs, either." He ducked his chin toward the three monks. "Witcomb's guys might recognize it." He glanced over at Sturgis. "Can I borrow yours?"

"Of course," the professor said.

"It's aiding and abetting, just so you understand. Hardcase'll be pretty steamed at you when he finds out." Mark smiled nervously.

Sturgis waved it away. "Just get him back in one piece and he can yell at us all." He rooted in his pocket for a moment, extracting the keys and handing them over.

"You're certain you want to bring the book?" Frank frowned his concern at the object in Mark's other hand. "They could just kill you the moment they have it."

"Maybe," Mark said pensively. "But I won't get my foot in the door without it. And I've got a plan, if it gets sticky." He was moving toward the door.

"Don't suppose you'd wanna share that?"

"Come on, we know the guy's name; we know where he lives. As soon as you show up, the party's over."

"No," Harper said wearily, "then it turns into a hostage situation."

"Well, maybe," Mark admitted. "But I'm pretty good at negotiating. I've been dealing with Hardcastle for years, haven't I?"

He checked his watch and took the stairs, two at one time. He didn't have any time left to negotiate with Harper, either. They both needed to get going. He strode over to Sturgis' car, spared one last moment for a confident wave, and then was in it and departing.

Frank would hold back long enough to give him some breathing space, but he knew he was trusting to blind luck now. There was a possibility that Witcomb had changed his base of operation—no way to know for sure that he hadn't—but even if it went the way they hoped, things might get pretty dicey before they were through.

He drove down the driveway and into the evening gloom. It was near enough to nightfall to justify headlights, and it seemed as though the morning had been at least three days ago. He proceeded as he'd been directed. The book-hound had sounded aggravated and nervous on the phone.

Then he saw them, coming up behind him fast--the headlights of a van. He half expected to be rammed. It would have been par for the course for the whole weekend. But the guys played by the agreed-upon rules as he slowed to let them pass.

It was a reenactment of the afternoon's episode, even down to the same pulling-in spot. He was glad to see Hardcastle's Corvette still there and unharmed in the shed, as if it might be a harbinger that its owner, too, was still alive.

He was half-relieved to have seen only the two henchmen pulling transport duty. He assumed Witcomb would want to see the book for himself before killing or releasing his hostages. He handed over the book. There was no point in protesting now. He wasn't surprised to see it given only a cursory glance by the one man, while the other did the routine with the cuffs and the blindfold. A little rougher this time, Mark thought. The one guy had had a bruise on his cheek and they both were moving stiffly.

_Serves you right._

He submitted, impatient to be on the way. He knew Frank had been just as impatient, and under no constraints except for a promise which he might already be regretting.

But this journey was uneventful. Maybe even less circuitous than the last one had been. Chances were, Witcomb was getting impatient, too. Mark wasn't surprised to hear the man's voice as soon as the vehicle had pulled to a stop and the rear door was opened.

"You have it?"

The answer must have been a nod. The next sound Mark heard was an intake of breath, more awe than delight. Then he was being yanked out.

"You've got the book," he said, trying to dig his heels in a little, slow the forward momentum. "Bring him out here and we can get going."

"I'll need to look at it," Witcomb said smoothly, "study it. Confirm its authenticity."

"We never discussed that," Mark shot back. "That wasn't the deal."

"You were never in a position to bargain," Witcomb said airily.

The guy alongside him was applying greater force, and Mark did want to go inside if Hardcastle wasn't being brought out. At least they were still bothering with the blindfold, though Mark knew any minute now the authorities would be moving in, and all deals would be off. Giving that a moment's pause, he got out peaceably and let his shepherd guide him.

They were up the steps, and inside the echoey front of the building. No one had said anything more, but Mark felt a certain tension. He thought, professional or not, the two hired hands were anticipating further orders. He was starting to hope that Frank hadn't been too mindful of his promise. There it was, the faintest sound, almost subliminal, and perhaps he wouldn't have noticed it except for his blindfolded, hearing-focused state.

He felt a sense of quick movement. "You were followed?" It was Witcomb, angry.

"Nah, nothing like that." One of the henchmen, from further off, maybe over by the window. "Might be anybody. Don't see it."

But they could hear it now, most definitely. And the sound of the chopper's blades was growing steadily louder, almost certainly masking whatever else might be approaching.

"They know who he is," Mark said, almost casually, to the unseen captor alongside of him. "But so far they haven't tagged you two." He was not averse to having fewer rats on this sinking ship.

But Witcomb said, abrupt and angry, "Take him downstairs," and he was jerked forward again.

Down the steps, Mark almost stumbling again. "The blindfold is stupid, Witcomb. And so is anything else you're gonna do." The sound of the helicopter was slightly more muffled now, but only as a function of their decent and several closed doors behind them. They were in the stone passageway again. Mark wondered how far back the tunnels went, whether there were other ways out. He might be the only one here without a firm contingency plan.

"Look," he said, hauling out his maximally persuasive tone as he was dragged into a room near the bottom of the stairs, "let's face it. You tried. You gave it a good shot, but too many people know what's going on. You'll have to let us go. It'll make things a hundred times worse if you don't. Right now it's still . . . manageable. No one's been hurt." He thought that was a lie, but he was willing to sacrifice the truth at this point.

He heard only a grunt of disbelief from the other man, but it was very close at hand and was followed by a sharp tug at the back of his head—the blindfold being yanked off.

He'd closed his eyes, almost reflexively, expecting to be dealing with the blinding bulb but, no, obviously not. He opened them, looking right into the face of Travis Witcomb.

He hadn't known what he expected, old, maybe, and hunched from too many hours spent leaning over pages. This man, though, was dark—black hair, heavy-browed--and looked in no way dependent on henchmen if physical force became necessary. Mark looked over his shoulder. The other two were still out there in the hall. They seemed energy, but not yet panicked. Mark realized the retreat to the relative quiet of this level had been a strategic decision.

But now he was being mostly ignored. The lamp which had held him at bay in his lst visit to this room, was now directed downward, toward the desktop. Witcomb broke his stare and moved back from him abruptly, going around to the back side of e desk and seating himself.

The man put the book down, in the bright puddle of light, and leaned over it, studying it with obvious close interest. No gloves, Mark noticed. He wondered if this wouldn't be a good time to remind the guy of the other end of the bargain, now, in the first flush of ownership. Quick, before the SWAT team had their bullhorn out.

No, Witcomb didn't look too happy, in fact he was glowering. Mark frowned in puzzlement.

"Not what you were looking for? It's what came out of the bird."

One disgusted grunt and then Witcomb closed the pages and pushed the thing slightly further from him.

"I had _hoped_ but . . . no."

Mark's frown had gone to something even more aggravated. "A _fake_? All that and . . ."

"No," Witcomb said, "Quite genuine, as far as I can tell—"

"Then—"

"—though I had hoped differently."

Mark blinked.

The man sat back in his chair for a moment. He finally took a deep breath. "A difficult decision." He let the rest of it out as a sigh, but he wore an expression of gradually solidifying decision. He wasn't looking down at the desk and the object that rested there. He was now scanning the room, the shelves to either side, freighted with handsomely bound volumes.

"My children," he said, with a quick sharp smile and a glance back at McCormick, still standing warily, just inside the doorway. "That is what they are called—infants—though they are the oldest of the old." He looked down again. "Were," he added ruefully. "_Were_ the oldest. Next to this they really _are_ children." He shook his head. "This is a fluke. An aberration. It went nowhere; it never should have existed. It means nothing and yet it will negate everything that followed."

His pitch and timbre had gradually risen, intensifying. He was leaning forward again and Mark vary much wanted to get his handcuffs off, though so far the man's ire seemed directed at the innocuous thing before him. Mark found himelf wanting to nodd along in appeasement.

But the man had stopped. He was simply staring down, now, as though he'd come to a silent decision. Into that came the harshly grating squack of an electronic feedback, distant but still loud enough to be intrusive.

"This is the FBI—"

The man seemed too far gone in thought to notice, but McCormick heard movements behind him. The other two had already edged a short way down the hall and were muttering between them. Mark stooped, fetching out the key in a moment of group distraction, but temporarily palmed it.

"There is no choice," Witcomb said, "it must be done." He looked up from his moment of decision, appearing calmer than the circumstances warranted. He stood, picked up the book, and brushed past McCormick as though he were of no consequence. "Bring him, too," he said, almost as an afterthought.

Mark heard the one henchman mutter to the other, "Finally talking some sense," as he was grabbed again and hustled along between the two of them. He kept a tight grip on the key, and offered no resistance, since they were still headed toward the dungeon. He was vaguely aware of the droning of the FBI negotiator. The words were only occasionally distinct, but sounded so by the script that they might as well have been from a tape recording.

They drew to a halt again, crowded into the anteroom of the dungeon. He watched Witcomb shop the shelves, picking items from what was there: a galvanized steel bucket, some rags, a metal tin of paint thinner. He'd tucked the book up under his left arm while he sorted out his gleanings. Mark felt the men on either side of him getting twitchier.

"We oughta get outta here," the one man said, as though he were still certain that it could be done.

Witcomb ignored him as he set the bucket down and then layered the bottom with some of the rags. There was a pungent odor as he uncapped the paint thinner. He poured some in, on top of the rags, then stood and searched the shelves again, like an alchemist in his laboratory. He picked up one bottle, its stained label unreadable from where Mark stood.

"Perfect," the man murmured, then uncapped and upended that into the bucket as well. More rags, more chemicals. McCormick thought it was starting to look a bit like overkill, and he figured Witcomb must've had an inkling of misgiving, too, because when he was finished, he took it out into the hallway.

He set it down there. The book went in next—no shock to Mark, who steadily reminded himself it was just a book, _only_ a book. But, to his surprise, it was put onto the soggy pile gently, with something almost approaching reverence—or at least respect. The man fumbled in his pocket for a moment, then fished out a silver lighter. McCormick felt a twinge of regret, not much more. He had too many other things on his mind. Witcomb must've, too, because the didn't even look up as the figure rushed toward him from the side.

There was only a grunt, lost in a crashing clatter as the bucket was caught in the fray, tipped and now rolling away from the struggle, but then that blur of motion was backlit by a sudden explosive ball of flame, expending with a concussive _whump_.

The blast of heat and light momentarily stunned the men in the room, then the two henchmen were both in motion, almost colliding at the doorway as they fled past the temporarily diminished flames. Mark stood, staring in horror. The men on the floor were still struggling convulsively, though whether it was with each other, or to get away, wasn't clear. What was left of Witcomb's jacket was still aflame; his visible skin was charred, with patches of weeping red. Ludvik had gotten up onto his knees. His clothing was smoldering. He was scrabbling about as though he could not see, searching desperately despite the flames now creeping up the wall alongside him.

Mark felt the cuff on his wrist loosen before he was even fully aware he'd been working the lock. He put his sleeve up, in front of his face, to shield himself from the smoke and flame. He had Ludvik under one arm, dragging him back further from the rapidly spreading fire.

"No, _no_." The man's voice was a hoarse croak and he was putting up some awkward resistance. "I must—"

"It's a book," Mark coughed, eyes tearing. He heard more noise from further up the hallway—shouting, more people. He saw shapes in the smoky shadows and he hoped they were the good guys as he dragged Ludvik to his feet and thrust him in that direction. "Here, go with them." It was Emaus and Karel, who apparently didn't know the book was in peril, or maybe were less self-sacrificing. They accepted their injured leader and stumbled back in retreat.

Mark stooped, feeling flames rising up on his right. The fire had increased exponentially from its first tenuous hold on the wall. Old varnish and a dousing of paint thinner had given tenacity to its bite.

He got a grip on Witcomb's less-burnt arm, and another on what was left of his collar, hauling him a few feet further back. He couldn't tell if the man was past saving, but he seemed mostly past suffering. Mark patted his pockets with ruthless efficiency, and rolled him to get at the one with the most promising jangle.

He almost dropped the keys; they were blistering hot, but he managed to juggle them for a moment as he skittered back into the anteroom. It was only a temporary refuge; he felt the rising heat on his back. He stooped, staying low to find less smoky air. He fumbled with the lock, eyes now tearing, but managed it on only the third key.

He opened the door. A waft of cooler air. In briefly looked better than out, though he knew that was an illusion—that windowless cell would be a deathtrap. He saw a solid form in the flickering red, smoky haze. Hardcastle was on his feet, thank God. Mark didn't think he could have managed the man in any other condition.

"What the hell—?"

He didn't grace that with an answer. Words would have required breathing, and breathing now meant coughing. He grabbed the man's arm and pulled, out, and against all common sense, toward the fire. There was no resistance, which was good, because it was now felt like a matter of seconds before they both go down, and not get up again. McCormick felt as if he were floating; it was hard to make his feet connect with the ground, and it wasn't entirely clear who was leading whom.

The blistering heat brought him back to full awareness. In the hall the fire now extended back to the stairs—an impenetrable wall of smoke and flame. Mark felt the judge pulling at him. It was beyond human endurance not to move away from it. Things looked slightly less bad in the other direction. There was someone there, shouting over the sound of groaning, snapping wood.

"This way." It was Emaus again, a muffled, earnest shout. He was holding one sleeve up over his face and waving them forward with the other hand. "Come."

Mark nodded, nudging Hardcastle forward, trying to stay to the right side, between him and the flames. He tripped over something. It was large, and he knew, with a sudden grip of guilt, that it was a body.

"Sorry,' he mumbled, trying to get back up.

"Come on," someone said again, this time closer at hand and he realized it was Hardcastle, tugging him back up. He half-crawled over what he was now certain was a corpse, and staggered to his feet, the judge having never let go of his arm.

A few more feet and they were at a turn in the hall, and a slightly narrower passage. They'd run out of wainscoting, the smoke was still heavy, lying like a blanket against the ceiling. He wasn't sure any more who was leaning on whom, but he could hear Hardcastle's breathing, almost as harsh as his own.

Emaus had a flashlight. It traced a beam though the haze at eye level. It was hard to see what was ahead. Then, finally, an inkling of light coming down another flight of steps, and swirls of smoke rising up into it. Another flashlight. Worried faces peering in from above, hands reaching down to help them up.

He was sitting on the ground, without being sure how he'd gotten there. The steady hacking cough bought up black, gritty phlegm, and he heard the air whistling as he gasped in between coughing jags. Hardcastle seemed to be mostly in the same condition, sitting against a tree only a few feet away from him. They were in a down-sloping stand of pines. The helicopter was off a ways, shining a light into a clearing. McCormick could see the rough shape of a house and, near that, cars with police lights.

No fire department yet, though the smoke was rising even more plentifully from down there, and now he could see a bright orange fringe at one of the back windows. He looked up, and made out Bob Sturgis standing over him, with Franklin hovering anxiously at his side..

"How'd you guys—?"

"The monks insisted on coming after you. They were worried."

"About me, or the book?" Mark looked over at Ludvik, huddled against Brother Karel, rocking slightly. His face looked visibly burned, even in this poor light, and his eyes were shut tight, with tears streaming down across his sooty cheeks. It was hard to distinguish pain from sorrow.

"The book," Franklin finally blurted out. "What happened?"

McCormick looked over at the hole, smoke still pouring forth, then back at the scholar. He gasped it out in short panting breaths. "Wainscoting . . . in the catacombs. Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, there's a whole room full of those incunabulas down there. Witcomb, too." He shuddered slightly.

It was fairly apparent that he hadn't cheered Franklin up any. Mark shook his head and turned his attention back to Hardcastle, who was doing more breathing and less coughing now. "You can walk?" he asked.

He got an uncertain nod and then an attempt to stand.

"Hold on a sec." Mark got to his knees and then up. "No hurry." He looked back over at Sturgis. "Those other two guys come out?"

"Not this way," the professor said with a quick shake of his head. He got around on Hardcastle's other side to assist, and then they were all upright.

McCormick gave the three monks a worried glance. "We'll send some help up."

The started off down the hill, swaying like a bunch of sailors, newly tossed up on shore, with Franklin following along behind, even more stoop-shouldered than before.

00000

Mark concluded that distances underground were deceptive. What had felt like at least three circles of hell in the tunnel, was no more than a hundred yards on the surface. By the time they made it to the bottom the house was fully involved, with flames coming from every window. They could hear the sirens of the fire department fast approaching.

They spotted Frank, staring, a look of rapt horror frozen on his face as he watched the flames.

McCormick gave a holler, which ended in a rasping cough. Harper looked toward them, his grim expression giving way in stages to puzzlement, rapidly displaced by astonishment. Then he came toward them at a half-jog.

"You okay?" He had a hand gripping the side of Hardcastle's shoulder. "You both okay?" He took them in with a look of near-amazement, then glanced suddenly over his shoulder.

They'd all heard it, the slow-rising roar as the slate roof collapsed into the structure. The light was temporarily dampened but then the fires came roaring back, the flames rising into the black sky.

"My God," Frank dragged his gaze back to them. "How the hell did you get out of there?"

"Back door," Hardcastle said laconically, then coughed again, holding his casted arm against his side. He was acting more himself though, and was able to unhook his good arm from around Mark's shoulder. He seemed to be taking in the whole scene, and finally turned and gave McCormick a nod. "I'm glad you had the sense to notify the cavalry."

Mark kept his mouth shut on that issue and cast a look at Frank that strongly pleaded for just a little more backup.

00000

Harper introduced the victims to the authorities and for once Mark noticed the guys in charge weren't asking too many stupid questions. From this, he gathered that he probably looked as bad as Hardcastle did. Frank had them sitting in the backseat of his car, with the Ventura county investigator in the front, half turned around and jotting notes as he went.

"One body, at least," Mark concluded, soberly. "Probably two more. No one saw them come out, and it would have been pretty easy to get turned around down there."

An ambulance arrived. Ludvik was loaded into it and Emaus and Karel piled in as well. Mark hadn't quite sorted out whether he thought the monk had committed a criminal act, but he was leaning toward an insanity defense. In any regard, the man had already been duly punished and it was a relief when the back doors of the vehicle closed, shutting off the his keening cries.

"And those guys?" the Ventura cop asked, with a nod toward the departing ambulance.

"Monks," Mark said distractedly and at the puzzled expression on the other man face he added, "one of them has a day job running a flea market stall . . . I just met him yesterday." He paused, squinting at that notion. It didn't seem possible.

The Ventura County guy was giving him an odd look. He'd probably decided that further questioning wasn't worth the effort. Mark watched disconnectedly as the man flipped his notebook shut and said, tersely, "Right, three bodies, maybe. One'll be the owner. We'll get back to you if we need anything further." He was up and out of the car.

Mark sighed and turned in his seat until he was facing the judge. "How 'bout you? I still think you oughta get checked out."

The lack of an immediate and vociferous 'no' was even further evidence that it was a good idea, but when Hardcastle pleaded a very weary, "How 'bout tomorrow?" Mark couldn't help but sympathize with him.

The hoses had been run out and water was pouring into the hulking black framework of the house. Frank wandered back over. He raised one eyebrow at the two of them. "Hospital?" he inquired politely.

He didn't seem overly surprised when both men said no.

"The chief says they're gonna strike it in a few minutes, but they sent a team in the back already—they got your three bodies." He looked over his shoulder and muttered, "Thought it was gonna be five when I saw that place going up." Then he looked back at them. "It's gotta be contagious. These friends of yours seem like fairly normal guys, and a bunch a monks, what gives with that? They all pile in a car and decide to tag along."

"You're just miffed because they got here first and found the back door," Mark said, smiling determinedly.

"Well, they didn't have to deal with multiple command structures." Frank shrugged. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "But I'd like to know what happened in there? How'd that fire get going so fast?"

"I just gave a statement to the other guy," Mark said. "And I thought you said this wasn't your jurisdiction."

He could probably have withstood Frank's increasingly jaundiced expression, but it didn't take a sideward glance for him to realize that Hardcastle had stiffened up as well. He knew he'd never hold up against their collective disapproval.

He finally let out a long breath and said, "Paint thinner, in a bucket. Rags, and something else flammable. I'm not sure what. But it wasn't Ludvik. Not intentionally. He was just trying to keep Witcomb from toasting the book."

"You sure that's all it was?"

"Absolutely," Mark said, with no hesitation. "He mighta wanted to do the auto-da-fe thing to that guy, but he never would've risked it with the book right there."

"What book?" Hardcastle said.

"The book that was in the parrot." Mark sighed again. "Sorry, the parrot's dead, too."

Hardcastle looked at him very intently for a moment, then said, "Musta been a heck of a book."

"Yeah," Mark nodded once, and then, with a defiant jut of his jaw, added, "but just a book."

**Epilogue**

Two days passed, uneventfully, except that Mark ran everything through the laundry, _twice_, in a vain attempt to salvage their clothes. Frank came by on Wednesday morning, to tell them that the Mexican police had busted Albert Traviato, trying to come across from Tijuana with two Mayan gold pendants in his suitcase..

"That doesn't sound like him," Hardcastle said doubtfully. "The guy is usually pretty careful. That's why we could never nail him on anything."

"He says one of his rivals musta planted them in his stuff and then ratted him to the cops."

"Why didn't we think of that?" McCormick said cheerfully.

"'Cause it's illegal," Hardcastle shot back with a weary growl.

"The word is, he's got his lawyer knocking on the DA's door down in San Diego offering up whatever they want in exchange for an extradition request," Frank added, with an air of satisfaction. "He'll turn over on every dealer and buyer he's ever worked for, to stay out of La Mesa_._"

"I take back everything I every said about there being no justice." Mark smiled.

"I dunno," Hardcastle looked thoughtful, "maybe we should go down there, root around a little, see who tried to set him up. You still got five days left on your spring break."

Mark looked at him in horror for a moment, then caught the slight crinkle of amusement in the corner of the man's eyes.

"Hah," he said, in fairly high dudgeon, "you just want me to find you another parrot. That's what it is. Maybe paper maiche this time. Well, forget about that," he grumped enthusiastically. "The guy who won't even let me sign his cast." He shook his head. "No more parrots for you."


End file.
